Murder in the Queen's Armes (17 page)

"So," he said as he sat down and arranged his food fussily before him, "you had a nice walk? You didn’t get wet?" He corrected himself with a smile. "Wet you didn’t get?"

"Wet we got," Gideon said, "but it was a nice walk all the same."

The barmaid came with their tea and food, and Gideon ordered another glass of beer for Abe. For a few minutes they busied themselves with their meals. Gideon’s shepherd’s pie was substantial and fortifying, an earthenware pot filled with spiced ground meat and overflowing with a thick covering of steaming, brown-crusted mashed potatoes. After a few minutes, as if by agreement, they sat back a little, ready to talk.

"Well," Abe said, "it didn’t go so good at the hearing. Nathan’s got troubles. They’re closing down the dig."

"You weren’t able to say anything that helped?" Gideon asked.

Abe pushed a golden shred of haddock back and forth on his plate. "I said, and they listened, but what do they care what a wonderful dissertation he wrote in 1969, or that he ran a beautiful dig on Baffin Island in 1977? This they already knew. With
now
they’re concerned." He shrugged and let his fork fall to the plate. "It was a fair decision; I can’t complain. As for Nathan, I could talk myself blue in the face and he wouldn’t know how to say, ‘I’m sorry, I made a mistake.’ "

"Poor guy," Gideon said quietly.

"Yeah, the poor guy, but what could they do? For this he has only himself to thank."

"Abe," Gideon said, "you don’t think it’s possible that he did it, do you? Stole the skull from Dorchester, buried it here, and pretended to discover it?"

Abe shrugged elaborately. "Who knows? First he swears up and down he didn’t do it, and then he swears up and down it’s impossible that anybody else should do it."

"I don’t understand," Julie said. "Why is it impossible?"

"Because," Gideon said, "the fragment was a couple of hundred feet from the dig, and barely visible. It could have gone unnoticed forever. Anybody who’d planted it would have made it more noticeable and put it near the trenches, where it would have been sure to be found."

"Well, if it was so impossible to find, how did Nate find it?"

"He…I don’t really know." Gideon turned inquiringly to Abe. "Did he say?"

"He found it because he’s a perfectionist who can’t stand it if one little pebble is out of place on his dig. He says he’s taking a walk, he sees a piece of paper on the ground, he bends down to pick it up, and out of the corner of his eye, bingo, he sees the bone. Just luck, that’s all. But," he said, addressing Julie, "the thing is, whether he put it there himself or not, he’s the director and he’s got to be responsible—and Stonebarrow Fell is now completely
farpotshket.
You know
farpotshket?
"

"That," Gideon said, "is screwed up, plain and simple."

Abe nodded. "Screwed up. You said it, buddy."

Like the others, Julie was toying with her food. "I suppose it’s a silly idea," she said, "but isn’t it possible that Nate is just as much the victim of a hoax as Horizon Foundation or anyone else?"

Gideon replied. "But as Abe said, it’s Nate’s dig; he’d get all the credit for anything found there. Who else would have anything to gain?"

"Wait a minute," Abe said, brightening. "Maybe that’s the wrong question. Maybe the question should be: Who had anything to lose?"

"And the answer," Julie said excitedly, "would be Nate Marcus. Couldn’t somebody have sabotaged him? Duped him into thinking he had a legitimate find that proved his theory, so that in the end he’d be ruined because the thing would eventually be shown to be a fraud?"

"That," Gideon said admiringly, "is absolutely labyrinthine. But I don’t know if it holds up. If someone was doing it to discredit Nate, how could he know for sure the fraud would even be discovered? Sure, I recognized it as Pummy when I saw it, but a lot of anthropologists might not, and for all anyone knew, the substitution in the Dorchester Museum might have gone unnoticed for years—and Nate would have been a hero."

"Unless," Abe said, "Julie’s secret hoaxer made sure the word got out; for example, a little word to the
West Dorset Times?
There was a reporter waiting at the gate for us, you know."

"Yes, I know," Gideon said. "And that reminds me… Abe, you never told the
Times
I was coming to Stonebarrow Fell, did you? Or anyone on the dig?"

Abe looked blankly at him. "What for?"

"That’s what I thought," Gideon said. "Now, back to this theory you two are cooking up—this unnecessarily rococo theory, to borrow a phrase—I think it falls down on one crucial point; from what you said, Abe, Nate’s maintaining that
he
discovered the thing personally, without any little hints from anyone else. So how could anyone be duping him?"

"That’s true," Abe mused. "Even when he saw it, he almost didn’t see it."

"That’s what he
says,
" Julie said vigorously. "Maybe he’s protecting someone."

"Protecting the one who sabotaged him?" Gideon asked.

"Well…" Julie laughed suddenly. "I think you’re right. This theory’s started to sound a little unga …umpki…"

"Ungepotchket,"
Abe said, a smile on his face. "Very good. You learn quick. But
ungepotchket
or not, I think maybe you got something. Only what, I don’t know."

Gideon thought so too. Something wasn’t quite right in her rationale, but the basic idea was starting to make sense. Nate had the most to lose, all right, and plenty of well-earned enemies who would love to see him lose it. Was it possible that he’d been set up? But how? They were silent for a moment, and then Julie asked, "Abe, what will happen to him now? What will they do to him?"

"Nothing will happen to him," Abe said with a shrug. "They’ll just close down the dig, that’s all. And Professor Hall-Waddington doesn’t want to press any charges; he just wants his skull back. But Nathan’s reputation is finished. He’ll never lead another dig, and if he ever gets out of that little college in Missouri, I’ll be surprised. It’s a pity; a sad ending for a boy with a lot of promise."

"It sure is," Gideon said. "And you wasted a lot of time and money coming all the way out here."

"Not wasted," Abe said, and as the old man looked up, Gideon saw a telltale gleam in his eye. "You don’t close down a dig overnight, even a little one. It takes a few days to wind it down, right? You got to backfill, clean up, straighten out the catalog, write a site report….They asked Nathan to do it—which was a kindness, in my opinion—but he said no. Your Inspector Bagshawe told him he has to stay in Charmouth awhile, but if he never sees Stonebarrow Fell again, it will be too soon. So I said I would do it."

"You? You’re going to personally supervise closing it down?"

"Sure, what’s the big surprise? Who else, Frawley? Why not me?"

"For one thing, because you’re a cultural anthropologist, not an archaeologist."

"In
my
day," Abe said, "anthropology wasn’t split into a hundred little pigeonholes—microethnology, paleolinguistics—you were an anthropologist, that’s all, and you had to learn everything."

"All right, but still—why you? Why aren’t Robyn and Arbuckle doing it? They’re the ones who say it has to be shut down."

"It’s not their job," Abe said, showing a little impatience. "Robyn left already for Bournemouth, and Arbuckle went back to his dig in France for a couple of days. They’ll come back and check and see that I closed it down right, and that’s that."

"Robyn and Arbuckle are going to check on
you?
"

"Why not? They have to sign the final papers. Look, Gideon, what’s all this arguing? Don’t make a big
tzimiss
out of it. I’m glad to get the chance to do something… better than watch the rain fall down in Washington."

"What about your arthritis, Abe?" Gideon said more gently. "It’s a four-hundred-foot climb."

Abe waved his hand grandly. "I walked it today, didn’t I? Did I complain? Did I slow anybody up?…Well, maybe a little, but what’s the hurry? Gideon, it’ll be fun for me, something for an old man to do."

"Abe," Gideon said slowly, "closing down a dig isn’t fun. You’re doing it because this whole thing doesn’t sit right with you, and you think you can do a little poking around up there. Am I right?"

"Did I say you were wrong? And what’s more, it doesn’t sit right with you, either. There’s somewhere a little monkey business, something rotten in Denmark, no?"

"Well—"

Julie put down her teacup with a rattle. "Now wait a minute, you two. In the first place, from what you tell us, Gideon, Inspector Bagshawe is more than capable of handling any monkey business. And in the second place, if one of those people up there really is a murderer, then… Abe, are you sure you want to be up there on that lonely hill, alone with them?"

"Eh," Abe said. "If one of them really killed that boy, already he’s shaking with fright. To kill someone else right in the same place is the last thing he’ll do. Besides, the police will be over the place for a few days. And anyway, what do I know about murders? That’s your husband’s department. But I’ll tell you the truth." He poked his own chest with a bony, elegant forefinger. "Me, I’m interested in skulls that disappear from museums and turn up in the ground, instead of the other way around. If Hall-Waddington wants to drop it, that’s his business, but me, I’m still interested. And for this kind of interest, believe me, nobody’s going to kill me."

Abe put a chip in his mouth and chewed it slowly. "Listen, Gideon, I was thinking…"

"Oh-oh," Gideon muttered.

Abe looked up in innocent surprise. " ‘Oh-oh’? What, ‘oh-oh’?"

"Oh-oh, whenever you tell me you’ve ‘been thinking,’ in that particular tone of voice, it means you’ve cooked up something for me that’s going to get me in trouble."

"Me?" The old man’s moist eyes opened wider. "Julie, listen how he talks to me, his old professor, who taught him everything he knows," He turned back to Gideon and spread his hands. "What did I cook up? Nothing. I was only thinking you might like to help me with the shutdown, spend a little time up there—maybe two days, maybe three days. I could use somebody I can trust. Frawley and the others…frankly, I’m not too impressed."

Ordinarily, Abe would have applied a good deal of embellishment to such a request: He was an old man, his powers were failing, he needed an alert, bright young man beside him, someone he could lean on in his infirmity, et cetera. This time, however, he seemed to think that coaxing was unnecessary.

And of course he was right. Gideon was just as curious, just as interested in poking around Stonebarrow Fell as Abe was. But Gideon had more than buried skulls on his mind. The uncomfortable feeling of being responsible— albeit unknowingly and unwillingly—for Randy’s death had not subsided, and a couple of days up on the dig, mixing naturally with the crew, might provide answers that Bagshawe, in his official capacity, would have difficulty finding. Just how much the inspector would appreciate his assistance Gideon didn’t know, but that was the inspector’s problem.

Julie made a resigned but reasonably cheerful sound. "Okay, I’ve been wanting to see some of the Hardy things we never got around to, anyway—the cottage at Bockhampton, things like that. Maybe I’ll do a little touring on my own while you two do your Sherlock Holmes thing up there." Her hand found Gideon’s knee under the table. "But you’re going to have to promise to be careful."

He covered her hand with his. "Of course we’ll be careful, but Abe’s right. There’s nothing to be careful about."

"And remember, you’re not a detective."

"She’s right," Abe put in.

Gideon shook his head despairingly. "Why does everyone find it so necessary to keep reminding me of that? When did I ever claim to be a detective?"

The barmaid cleared away the dishes, and Gideon refilled the flowered teapot from the metal pitcher of hot water that had been served along with it, pouring the water directly onto the two gigantic, soggy teabags—each one big enough for three pots of American tea. "There is one thing, Abe," he said. "I hope it’s okay with you if I don’t start until Saturday. Tomorrow Julie and I are going over to Lyme Regis. I want to see if I can hunt down the omniscient editor of the
West Dorset Times.
"

Abe spread his hands and appealed to Julie. "You see the way it is? One minute you give them a job, and the next minute they’re asking for time off."

STONEBARROW FELL AGAIN
MYSTERY SKULL A HOAX
The "Mycenean Man of Stonebarrow Fell" was revealed yesterday to be a hoax that has left the anthropological establishment reeling with embarrassment. The much-heralded Bronze Age relic had in fact been stolen from the Greater Dorchester Museum of History and Archaeology and secretly implanted at Stonebarrow Fell, where it was subsequently "discovered" by expedition director Nathan G. Marcus.
In a tense scene at the dramatically isolated site high above Charmouth Beach, American physical antropologist Gideon P. Oliver denounced his countryman’s find as a fraud, and was immediately supported by representatives of the Wessex Antiquarian Society and the Horizon Foundation, the expedition’s joint sponsors. The abducted skull, actually some 27,000 years older than the British Bronze Age, has since been restored to its place of honor in Dorchester.
Professor Marcus has refused comment, but the Times has learned that he has been suspended and recommended for censure by the two sponsoring organizations. In his stead, Dr. Abraham I. Goldstein, Professor Emeritus, Columbia University, assisted by Professor Oliver …

With a sigh, Gideon put the word-processed draft on the desk. "This will be in today’s edition?"

"Yes," Ralph Chantry said, elbows on the desk, chubby fingers steepled in front of his lips. "I trust you have no objections?" Despite the overheating in his office, he was burrowed into a thick woolen sweater-vest.

Gideon shook his head. "No, I have no objections." What difference did it make? It would soon enough be front-page news in the small world of anthropology anyway, and that was the only world that would matter for Nate. "Well, maybe one. I don’t know that I exactly ‘denounced’ the thing."